


Secrets and second chances

by macswriting



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:35:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26262019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/macswriting/pseuds/macswriting
Summary: Lancelot has a lot to unlearn and Gawain has a lot to figure out. But can they work together to actually do so - and protect Squirrel?
Relationships: Gawain | The Green Knight & Squirrel | Percival (Cursed), Gawain | The Green Knight/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed), Squirrel | Percival & The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Comments: 37
Kudos: 188





	1. Chapter 1

His whole body ached, but he was used to that. The pain he was suffering was, as it always was, relegated to the back of his mind as he tried to focus on what to do next. Compartmentalising was something he’d learned as a boy. The disgust, the anger, the grief – all of that had been locked away with each new lesson Father had taught him, until he’d been able to forget about them.

Lacking emotion had been easier and now that the walls were broken down, he didn’t know how he would survive.

Even the pain of his body would be easier to deal with than this.

But the boy needed him.

Even so, he still contemplated pushing him off Goliath if he squirmed once more. With his arm locked around the boy’s waist, it’d be easy to do, and maybe it’d teach him a lesson.

No, that was what Father would have done. The Monk didn’t want the boy to go through the same lessons he had, that was not why he’d taken him. He wasn’t even sure the boy realised he was Fey, the thought still leaving a shudder through his beaten body, a habit he was not sure he could break.

He was not supposed to admit it.

“Would you sit still?” He grumbled after one particular shift from the boy had him hissing in pain. He was clearly tired, to make such a weak lapse.

“We’ve ridden all through the night, and I’m hungry and I’m bored, and –“

The rest of the complaints were ignored, just a hum in his ears as he thought about those words. The sun was high above their heads and there was still no sign of someone behind them. But the idea of stopping, he wasn’t sure whether that would help anything.

Once he dismounted Goliath, he wasn’t sure he’d get up again.

“We’ll stop when I say we can stop.” He could almost swear the boy was about to swell up in outrage at being spoken to like that, so he added in a softer tone, “When I see somewhere safe. It is too open here.”

He studied the back of the boy’s head, waiting to see if that’d suffice. Thank God – although perhaps he shouldn’t, since He never answered him anyway – it was enough to silence whatever insults the child had planned.

Yet, he almost wished the boy was shouting at him, or complaining, or something.

He’d spent a lot of time in silence, but now that he was questioning everything, the silence was not helping him.

“What was your name, boy?” He supposed he couldn’t call him boy forever, or more accurately, for the rest of their journey together. Once he knew the boy was safe with his people, he suspected his life would end rather suddenly.

“Squirrel.”

Squirrel. The idea of the boy being called an animal, treated like an animal, it left a bitter taste in his tongue. There had to be something better to call him. “A squirrel is an animal. What name were you given?” He was hoping, based on the little bit of knowledge he had gathered about the Fey over the years, that there was another name.

“I don't like that name.”

The whine nearly made him smile, something he didn’t think he’d done – in earnest – for… he wasn’t sure. It had been too long. “It's still your name.”

“Fine.” The almost smile tugged on the corner of his lips at how reluctant he was to speak. “It's Percival.”

Percival. A good name, one he echoed softly. He owed the boy – he owed Percival everything. While it had been the Green Knight who had reminded him of the walls he’d built around his emotions, it’d been Percival who had given him a reason to knock the walls down, or at least start. He wasn’t convinced it was the best thing for himself, but for others… well, he was already damned, but perhaps he could set one thing right. It wouldn’t spare his soul, but it still seemed like the right thing to do.

“Do you have a real name?” The question surprised him, not because he wasn’t expecting Percival to actually care enough to ask – he didn’t expect anyone to care but the boy had already proven he would always do the unexpected – but because he had an answer.

It had not been used since he was close to Percival in age, but when he’d been asked, the Monk remembered the name.

“Lancelot.” It felt almost reverent to say it, to claim the name that had been denied him. “A long time ago, my name was Lancelot.” He wasn’t sure whether he was still that person – too much had happened to him. But nor was he the Monk now, the hood not even hiding him from view like he always had. Perhaps he could be Lancelot, just for the short term of the rest of his life.

It seemed that sharing names had been enough to break Percival’s silence, Lancelot listening to the rambling words with a sense of relief. It gave him something to focus on, the constant chatter and the road the only things that filled his head.

It was close to midday before he finally brought his horse to a stop. It was no safer than any other place, but behind trees, he could smell the fresh water of a river, and he knew that Percival and Goliath would need the break. He’d already pushed all three of them to a breaking point, but Lancelot was used to ignoring his own needs.

“Here.” He dismounted first, jaw tensing at the pain that rippled through his body, before offering to help Percival down. He tried to ignore the twinge of hurt when the help was refused, and Percival jumped down. “There’s water that way.” He couldn’t smell anyone else’s presence, and if the child tried to run off, Lancelot could track him down again. “I’ll tend to Goliath. You go fill the waterskin.” There was only the one, and it was already empty. He’d given it all to Percival, but he ignored his parched and cracked lips.

“Alright, but I’m not getting back on that bloody horse.” Lancelot turned to raise his eyebrow at him, not saying anything back. “Don’t give me that look. Do you even know where we going? Because Goliath can’t carry us forever. And I’m hungry, and maybe we can hunt something here. I’m a good archer, give me the bow.”

There was no circumstance in which Lancelot was giving him the bow, even if he doubted Percival would shoot him with it. “Just go get some water, we’ll see.” It did seem like a fairly secluded place to rest, and there was something to be said for the fact Lancelot hadn’t really formed a plan up to this point.

Apparently, _we’ll see_ was an agreement to stay, because Percival let out a gleeful whoop, grabbing the waterskin and running in the direction that Lancelot had pointed. He had to bite back a reminder to be careful, instead turning his attention to Goliath. The horse had been his sole companion for years, the only being who didn’t look at him with disgust.

By the time Percival had come scrambling back, Goliath was freed of the saddle and ambling away towards the stream.

“Lancelot! Have you lost your mind? We need him.”

“He’ll come back. He always does.” Even though Percival didn’t look convinced, Lancelot ignored it as he finished setting up a little camp. Each movement was getting stiffer, but he worked through the pain as he had been taught to.

“Fine, but if we get stranded here, I’m blaming you.”

Lancelot rolled his eyes, only for something to hit the back of his head. And not something hard like a rock, like he’d thrown at the Trinity order. Turning slowly, he looked at the boy, who was refusing to look at him, and down to the ground.

The waterskin.

Refusal sprang to his lips, preferring to ensure the Fey child had whatever he needed, but they were staying for the day, perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to regain some of his own strength while there was enough water for them both.

“You could have just offered it.” His voice was mild as he reached for the waterskin, but the movement tore open a wound. Percival must have seen it, rushing forward to pick up the waterskin and shove it into Lancelot’s hands.

“Just drink it. Don’t make me pour it down your throat.” The cheerful threat was unexpected, and so was the answering smile on Lancelot’s face. Slowly, he drank some of the water, probably not as much as he was supposed to, but it was enough to make Percival beam at him. “Good. Now I’m going to find food. You must rest, you got badly beaten last night. You’re welcome, by the way. I saved you.”

Used to being given orders but not by children and not orders that were designed to take care of him, Lancelot shook his head.

He really wished he hadn’t when Percival retaliated by poking his stomach, much too close to where he’d been struck during their escape. “Boy!” He tried to sound threatening, but it was like the mystery had been broken and Percival just didn’t care, already scrambling to snatch the bow that Lancelot had set aside and running off. Were all children this irritating?

It did give him time to slip down to the river to clean his wounds without Percival seeing his scars, which was a relief. Forced to tear his cloak to create some bandages, Lancelot bound his chest as best he could before redressing and returning to the camp, just in time for Percival to come running back. “I can’t find anything to hunt.” The whine made Lancelot turn his head slightly, taking in a deep breath to find the scent of an animal. Nothing fresh.

“I don’t think there is anything right now. And you’re not going further afield. Just gather some berries.” Sighing at the mutinous look, Lancelot nodded at the bow. “Keep that, and if I scent anything, you can hunt it.” They’d likely lose dinner, but since Percival seemed happy with that, it was good enough. “But you’re still gathering berries for now. It’ll keep you from causing trouble.”

“Alright, Lancelot. But you have to lie down. That’s the deal.”

He could have argued there was no deal, only the terms he set forth, but he hadn’t slept in two days, and now that they’d stopped, the exhaustion was overwhelming him.

Rather than saying he agreed, Lancelot lowered himself onto the ground, head resting against the trunk of a tree. He wasn’t lying down, not when there could still be trouble, but sitting, that was a fair compromise. It seemed to be enough for Percival who walked off to start gathering berries.

He didn’t mean to fall asleep, but when he woke, it was nightfall. He had slept so deeply, he hadn’t even noticed that the boy had dragged the blanket over so they could share it, the Fey child tucked against his side like it was the safest place he could imagine.

Something inside Lancelot broke.

He made himself stay on watch, unwilling to let anything happen to the child who was already more important than himself. Before the sun had started to rise, Percival woke, immediately turning to look up at Lancelot.

“Good, you’re not dead. You look like a bloody corpse, you know that?”

Lancelot raised his eyebrow but didn’t argue. The boy had seen too many corpses, he was probably accurate in that comparison.

“Here. I saved these for you.” Apparently a morning person, Percival rolled over, grabbing something before dropping berries onto Lancelot’s lap. “Eat up. We should get going early, if we can find your ugly horse.”

“You should eat them.” Lancelot didn’t want to take food from him. Food being withheld was a punishment he’d often endured, he could last a while longer without something. “I am not hungry and you’ll never grow any taller if you don’t eat.” It was the last words that seemed to scare Percival the most.

“Alright, I’ll eat them. Your tummy probably still hurts after that fight. But you have to finish the whole waterskin.” Since the waterskin could be refilled before they left, he rolled his eyes but nodded, glad that Percival grabbed the berries and helped himself to them. “And you have to sleep until the sun has risen.” Popping the last berry in his mouth, Percival looked too smug as he settled back down against Lancelot’s side.

He should have argued, but the simplicity of Percival’s trust was something he was ill-equipped to handle, so he closed his eyes. Not to sleep, but to stop Percival from arguing, or that was what he told himself.

It would have been much smarter if he’d stayed awake.

He might not have woken a second time with a sword pressing into his throat.

\---

When he woke, the vines and leaves didn’t want to let him go. The Green Knight had been claimed by the Hidden, and the ground only released him as he struggled. It wasn’t until he actually got to his feet that Gawain stopped in shock.

He was on his feet, to start with. There wasn’t a single pain in his body. He was **_alive_**.

“Thank you.” Obviously, the Hidden had gifted him this second chance, and he wouldn’t have it taken away by being rude, so he murmured the words to the vines as they sunk back under the ground, leaving no trace they’d even been there. That was interesting. But if he was alive, that meant he had work to do, and there was nothing more important than his people. Starting with Squirrel.

He moved quickly then, leaving the tent with his body tensed for battle. But obviously, the battle had already happened without him. Not a single Fey body laid on the ground, but Gawain still checked the whole camp. Whoever had attacked the king’s men and burned this camp, they’d seem to have won. To his experienced eye, it looked as though the Paladins had decided to war against Uther’s people, and that kind of betrayal, it just made him nervous. Who had won?

But since there was no trace of any Fey, not even the one he wanted to see, he stole a horse – the owner was likely dead and what did he care if a human was missing anything anyway? – and rode off towards the Paladin camp. It was the last place he ever wanted to go.

Even if he couldn’t feel the pain anymore, or worse, the agonising numbness of legs that didn’t work, he couldn’t let Squirrel suffer the same fate. He’d kill anyone who got in his way, even the lost Fey. He wouldn’t betray him, but that didn’t mean he’d forgive him either. Not when he’d stayed with the Paladins.

He half expected that he’d find Squirrel’s body burning in some fire, but this camp was just as devoid of life, albeit with less bodies but no one living. Even the man who tortured him was dead. Obviously Nimue had sent someone to save Squirrel, and he could breathe in relief.

He’d catch up to them on the road, escort them safely. He wouldn’t fail the boy again.

He gathered supplies, too practical to turn his nose up at using man-blood weapons when he didn’t have anything else, and set off in the direction the Fey knight figured his people should be. Surely that’d be the way towards Squirrel and his rescuer.

It was going to be a long journey, travelling as far as he could until the sun started to go down before he made himself dismount, settling under a tree to sleep. It didn’t come easily. His fingers pressed and poked into every place where he remembered being hurt, but even scars from when he was a boy were gone. And when he slept, it was with a heavy heart.

Why save him and not others? There were more deserving people than him.

Waking to the sound of a voice, Gawain reached for his sword until he realised, he knew that voice.

He could forget his guilt temporarily when he knew that at least one Fey life was well. Obviously two, although he couldn’t hear who the boy spoke to.

He didn’t hesitate to start off in the direction of that voice, stepping carefully so he didn’t trip over any roots, but when he found the camp, his heart sunk.

It was two Fey, indeed, but not the pair he’d ever imagined. Drawing his sword, Gawain could only think about protecting Squirrel. Too much had happened for him to question anything right now, he would solve everything once he knew that it was safe.

And to that end, he pressed his sword against the Monk’s neck.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confronting the former enemy should really be less confusing than this.

“Boy, wake up.” 

Certainly, Squirrel didn’t seem to be in immediate danger, but Gawain’s voice was still a sharp order, one the boy followed as his eyes opened. But Gawain wasn’t looking at him, he was staring back at the man who had caused him so much grief. 

“Green Knight!” Squirrel’s delight in seeing him was clear from the shout, Gawain barely shifting an inch as he threw his arm around the knight’s legs – legs that weren’t supposed to work, he reminded himself. “I knew you’d be okay. I told Lancelot, didn’t I, I told you that –” It was very obvious the second the boy actually noticed the sword that was still digging into the Monk’s throat. “Sir!” This time, the shout sounded indignant, and he finally spared the boy a glance.

“Boy, get up. We’re leaving.”

He didn’t expect Squirrel to punch him in the leg with a cry of ‘ _no_!’ and throw himself on top of the Monk’s body. Gawain had to move the sword to ensure he didn’t nick the boy, his body tense as he waited for the awake man to make his move now that he had an opportunity.

But all he did was pat Squirrel’s back awkwardly.

“Percival, go with him.” The Monk’s voice was softer than Gawain had known it could be, and he could almost swear that he looked pained by this entire situation. Or perhaps he was just pained that he’d been caught. “Go on, go with your Green Knight.”

“So you can follow us and slaughter our people?” Gawain suggested coldly, watching those pale eyes – he’d always thought they’d be dark, for some reason – go just as cold. That was right, he knew exactly what the Monk was capable of, even if he was Fey.

“Sir, he won’t. Will you, Lancelot?”

The Monk was silent, but trying to push the boy away. He put on a good act, Gawain would give him that.

“Squirrel, get up. Now.”

“He saved me!” Squirrel did move, but only so he could glare up at Gawain. Only two days ago, he’d looked up at him with admiration, and now all Gawain could see was anger. “He fought the whole Trinity Order, and killed that ugly blind monk, and please, sir, he saved me and I won’t leave him.”

It was impossible to ignore Squirrel’s pleas entirely, taking a step back but not lowering his sword. “If that is true, then come here. I’ll hear him out.”

“He hates talking, sir.” But in an attempt to prove the honesty of his words, he was scrambling to his feet to stand by Gawain’s side. “He’s even more broody than you, Green Knight. But he’s Fey, and I know he looks ugly, but he’s good. He saved me and now we have to save him. I think he’s sick, he won’t eat, and he did get hurt real bad. I saved him, didn’t I, Lancelot? You’d fallen and the bastards were hitting you with those bloody flails so I saved you. Come on, sir. We can save him, can’t we?”

It was a lot of words to take in, but Gawain tried not to look too lost by the babble of words. Instead, he focused on the Monk the whole time, who was trying to hide his emotions. But Gawain was sure that there was both amusement and fondness there, not just coldness.

If anyone was going to convince the Monk to change sides, he should have known that it’d be Squirrel. The boy was able to talk Gawain into knighting him.

“Is it true you’re hurt?” Gawain’s hand rested on Squirrel’s shoulder as he addressed the Monk who was still sitting at his feet, propped against a tree the way Gawain had been a short while before.

The silence hung between them, only disturbed by a huff from Squirrel, before the Monk answered.

“A few wounds, they’d heal in time. But long enough you could get away with Percival, get a head start. You’ve evaded me before, you can do so again.” Gawain frowned, but the resignation in the Monk’s voice was hard to feign. It was as though he didn’t actually expect to follow them. How he knew that, he wasn’t certain, but he trusted that he’d stopped at the same stretch for a reason. The Hidden must have led him here, and if not to save Squirrel, then perhaps to save this lost Fey.

“I’ll take you as my prisoner.” Gawain decided, sheathing his sword. Ignoring Squirrel’s complaint, he talked over the top of the boy. “If you even look like you’re about to betray us, I will kill you myself. But for now, you may travel with us. Squirrel won’t leave you behind.”

The boy in question snorted. “Of course I won’t.”

For another shock, Gawain saw the Monk’s lips curve in response to Percival, but the sight was gone within a second as the Monk moved. Gawain’s hand rested on the hilt of his stolen sword, ready to strike, but the man only kneeled in front of him with a sombre expression. It was uncomfortable, wondering exactly what he was playing at, but he didn’t budge an inch, no matter the shiver that went up his spine as those eyes studied him back.

\---

When he’d woken to feel the tip of a sword digging into his skin, Lancelot had been sure it was over. The wraith of the man he’d failed, come back to kill him. It was a fitting end. But nothing was going the way he expected.

He didn’t dare speak, not to the Green Knight, not until he had to. He didn’t want Percival to be punished for helping him.

Lancelot did not wish to be the Knight’s enemy anymore, but if he struck the boy, Lancelot would kill him. He would not let Percival know the whip with the familiarity that he’d been left with, or the fascination and fear of fire he still carried every day, even when he set fire to farmland.

The idea of being a prisoner reminded him of his childhood, of days shut in darkness and the knowledge that only pain would follow when the door finally opened. But it was the only chance he had to continue protecting Percival and using whatever was left of his life to help the Fey. He would never claim to be making amends, there was nothing he could do to earn forgiveness so he would not ask. But he could try leave the Fey in a safer place than they’d been – because of him, because of Father, the Church. He could try be better.

There was nothing else he could do.

Kneeling in front of the Knight, he braced himself for a strike when he saw the way the Fey man grasped his sword, but he didn’t reach for the weapon that lay beside him. He fought all of his instincts, both those that kept him alive and those that had been instilled in him through beatings to serve the Church.

“I know my word means nothing to you.” He didn’t break his gaze from the Knight’s, hoping that the sincerity was there. He had hidden emotions for so long, he wasn’t sure whether he could actually show anything. “But I give you my word, I mean no harm to Percival, yourself, or any Fey. I…” There, his gaze did shift, to the boy who had reminded him what it felt like to smile. “I wish to protect the Fey from further harm.” It seemed that was the right thing to say for Percival at least, the boy throwing his arms around Lancelot’s neck.

His whole body stiffened, so unused to kind touches that he half expected a knife in his ribs, but it was just a hug. Just – that word was not right. There was nothing just about all of this. Nothing just in what he’d done in the past, under the thumb of the Church. He’d been following orders, but he should have known they were wrong orders.

He didn’t deserve the hug.

“I hope you are telling the truth, Ash man.” Lancelot didn’t dare look at the Knight as he spoke, too afraid that his heart would be showing there. “Perhaps in time, I might actually believe you. Now, show me your wounds. I am no healer, but I have dealt with my share of battle wounds.”

Lancelot did look back at him now, suspicion in his eyes as he slowly looked over the Knight. He did look in rather good condition compared to when he’d last seen him only days before. But he was being allowed to live, questioning him would only change that. Besides, he was already about to be punished for refusing to comply with an order.

“There is no need. I’ve already bound them. They will heal.” Both men had a stubborn set to their jaw, eyes locked a challenge that was only disturbed when Percival threw his hands up.

“You’re both bloody ridiculous. Lancelot, just show him. I’m going to go get some water, and when I come back, you both better behave yourselves or… or I’ll thump you both.” Both men snorted in response.

Percival dragged the blanket off Lancelot to pull the waterskin closer, grabbing it and marching off while muttering under his breath about stupid adults and their dumb fights.

“You heard the boy. Show me.” The Green Knight’s hand reached out and Lancelot braced himself, but all that came was a light shove to his shoulder. “And stop kneeling.” That was an order he was happy to obey, sitting back where he’d been.

Hesitating, he decided that with his back to the tree, there was less risk. There would be none of the disgust that usually came at seeing the evidence of his sins lashed and burned into his back. “Fine.” Lancelot filled the word with as much frustration as he dared. Just because the Knight hadn’t struck him yet didn’t mean it wouldn’t happen. But the Knight almost looked amused and not offended. Somehow, that scared him more. It had to be a trick, trying to lead him into making a mistake.

It would not be the first time someone had done that to him. Lancelot rarely made the same mistake twice.

Lifting his shirt, he revealed where the torn strips of his cloak had been turned into a bandage, but when the Knight kneeled down and reached a hand out to check for himself, he shook his head. “Do not touch me.” He didn’t think he could handle that, whether or not it hurt. Not entirely true. He could handle pain, but what he didn’t want was more kindness from the man, even if it wasn’t real.

“I do not expect you to let me come with you.” He spoke softly, not wanting Percival to overhear. “I only ask you don’t let Percival see my body. He’s seen enough death. Just take him, he will forget me in time. He only ever speaks of you with respect.”

The Knight stayed silent for a few moments, hand still stretched out but not touching him. “He calls you Lancelot, right?” When he nodded to confirm, the man kept speaking. “Lancelot, I told you. You’ll come with us as my prisoner until you prove you’ve changed. And to that end, you need to live. I won’t touch you, but I do need to see you’re actually injured. You don’t have my trust yet.”

Guilt felt rather like bile in his throat, Lancelot nodding mutely as he pulled down one of the bandages. The wound was ugly, Percival would have said, but at least it wasn’t laid over other, older scars.

He couldn’t look at the Knight, just waiting for something to happen, just so he knew what he was supposed to do next. A hand on his shoulder nearly made him flinch, instead turning a blank stare onto the man.

“You can wrap that back up now, unless you need help. Once we get back to camp, healers will make sure you’re fine, but I don’t think you need stitches. You’ll have a scar though.”

Lancelot shrugged at the idea of another scar as he pulled the bandage and then his shirt back into place. He had lost count of the number of scars on his body, one more would not matter. “I told you I’d be fine.” Percival was clearly rubbing off on him, that almost sounded like a whine.

“So you did, Ash man. But I’ll let you ride tomorrow all the same. You travelled farther than I thought you’d be able to walk like that.”

“We rode. Goliath will come back once the sun rises, he always does.” Lancelot explained, although he knew most horses weren’t as well trained as Goliath had always been. He never questioned it, not wanting to ask a question that would have his sole companion taken from him.

“Good. We’ll be able to travel further then. Let me fetch my horse, then we’ll get started. I doubt any of us will get more sleep now.” When Percival ran back into the clearing with the waterskin, the Knight rose, addressing the boy. “Squirrel, start packing up the camp. I’ll come straight back, and once –“ His voice felt silent when his horse was led into the camp by another horse. “What the –“

“Goliath.” Lancelot got to his feet slowly, already rolling the blanket. “I suppose that means we go once I’ve packed up the camp.” He was not going to just lie there, ignoring the looks from the other two – three, if one counted Goliath but he was just a horse even if he was a strange horse.

It didn’t take long between the three Fey to be ready to set off, and Lancelot had been about to call Percival over to lift him onto Goliath when he saw the boy already sitting on the Knight’s horse. Trying to ignore the ache in his heart, he turned away, not showing any of his pain, emotional or physical, as he lifted himself onto his horse.

“Follow me.” The Knight instructed, and Lancelot obeyed in silence. As the morning passed, he could hear Percival talking to the Fey knight cheerfully and heard the low rumble that were his responses, but he had no idea what the elder Fey said. He did his best not to eavesdrop, instead trying to determine whether the path the Knight was leading them on was safe. If he smelled anything off, he’d have to say something, he didn’t want to end up in a trap.

It was a good thing that he was paying such close attention to his senses. Urging Goliath to ride beside the others, he kept his voice low. “We’re coming up on people. Not Fey. The tracks have been faint, but they’ve gotten stronger, and I’d say we’ll catch up with them by midday at this rate.”

The Knight looked a little startled by the warning, but nodded once. “Do you have a plan?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They do not agree on much, but they do agree when it comes to Squirrel's safety. If only that actually made a difference.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will not usually post so quickly, but this chapter followed on from the last. It's also a shorter chapter, but I promise, the next one will be back to true form of lots of introspection from both boys - and a lot more angst.

Without knowing for certain who laid ahead, it was difficult for the two men to agree on a plan. Lancelot thought it better to go around them, to avoid any conflict at all, but the Knight had insisted they couldn’t waste time. There was no guarantee that it’d turn into a fight, and the two of them were both experienced soldiers. They could likely easily handle the half dozen people ahead of them if it came to that.

At least they’d both agreed that Percival was not to fight, despite the Fey boy’s complaints about being a knight too.

Lancelot had nearly asked the Green Knight what foolishness had possessed him to do that, but he bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood.

Eventually, the Knight won. Lancelot knew he’d already pushed his luck too much, and even if he didn’t want to risk Percival’s life, he did agree that the two of them should have no difficulties protecting the boy. Lancelot alone had taken down a half dozen elite guards just to protect him, the same number of people with a second man fighting by his side would be easily defeated.

Truthfully, he was more worried about reminding the Fey man of how well Lancelot fought. Maybe he’d have doubts about letting him live, such a dangerous weapon that had only caused the Fey harm in the past.

Extracting a solemn promise from Percival to stay took almost as long as it had to agree on what to do.

The Knight had tried ordering him, threatening him, and even saying please.

But it’d been Lancelot’s soft promise that had Percival swearing – both literally and by promising to stay.

_‘We need you to stay safe. I promise I will do what I can to return to you with your Green Knight unharmed.’_

Left in a safe hiding place, with one of Lancelot’s knives and his bow and arrows to protect himself with, Percival had to watch as the men rode off together. Lancelot hoped that he would not let the boy down.

There was only silence once they’d left Percival, the two of them prepared for a battle even without the certainty that there would be trouble. For all they knew, they could just pass some travelling family and have to go back for Percival, but they couldn’t take the risk.

Their luck was not so good.

Lancelot could tell the second the Knight saw the red that defined the men Lancelot had served his whole life with. The smell of fear and anger was nearly enough to choke him, but he had no doubts of what he had to do.

He’d made promises to Percival that felt more important than the promises Father had beaten into him.

\---

Gawain was furious. The Monk had betrayed them, led them straight into a trap. Thank the gods that he’d insisted on leaving Squirrel behind. Hopefully the boy would be able to escape, Gawain would take down as many men as possible to give him the best chance of survival.

When the Fey traitor drew his sword, so did Gawain, but the Monk didn’t swing at his head like he expected. He charged forward, even as the Red Paladins shouted.

The first two men were felled quickly before his eyes, and Gawain was forced to accept that Lancelot had not led them into a trap, at least not yet. And since the Fey man had been pulled off his horse – who seemed even unhappier about it than a horse had any right to, kicking a Paladin that was foolish enough to walk behind him – Gawain dismounted to rush into the fray.

No matter how impressive it was to watch the Ash man’s elegance in fighting, he wouldn’t let any Fey fight Paladins alone, no matter which Fey it was.

With the Ash man flipping back onto his feet with more grace than an injured man should have, Gawain moved to stand behind him, their backs touching as the surviving Paladins circled them. Only five left. Hardly a challenge.

Even when they were rushed by all five at once, they fought well, only bumping into each other twice. The second time did end with Gawain getting a cut to his arm, but it wasn’t bad enough to stop him from cutting down the Paladin that nearly stabbed the Ash man.

Soon enough, they were surrounded by bodies, and both of them were standing, their breathing heavy from exertion, but Gawain gave his companion the first true smile he had.

“You fought well, brother.” Seeing the flash of guilt in pale eyes, he realised that was probably not the best choice of words considering the Ash man had just killed former brother in arms, so he softened his tone. “Squirrel will be upset he missed seeing you fight. We should go fetch him, tell him we’re fine.”

As he’d hoped, mentioning the Fey boy took away the tortured look in the other man’s eyes.

“Not entirely unharmed though.” The words confused Gawain for a second, only remembering the cut when the Ash man reached for his arm. He remembered very vividly the pain of it, the torn fabric around it spotted with blood, but both of them could clearly see now there was nothing, not even the tiniest scratch. All he could feel now was the gentle touch of the calloused hand that had once struck him, not that there was any evidence of that wound either, not anymore.

Gawain was about to mention the Hidden when he saw the fear in his former enemy’s eyes. “It only got my clothes.” He lied, not sure why he felt the need to do so. It wasn’t a particularly convincing lie, but since the Ash man couldn’t prove otherwise, there was a heavy pause before the other let go of his arm.

“What of you? Were you hurt?” He didn’t really expect the Ash man to answer, and as he expected, there was a faint roll of his eyes as he turned away. Gawain found himself, not for the first time, torn between amusement at the silent sarcasm and frustrated with the stubbornness. But the way he held himself suggested that maybe one of the Paladins had done some damage.

He’d get Squirrel to ask, that’d have better chance of success.

The only problem was, when they’d returned to where Squirrel had been hiding, there was no triumphant cheer. There was only a soft sound from the man beside him as they looked at the abandoned weapons with spots of blood trailing on the ground.

For a second, he wondered if the Monk had anything to do with that, a trick he hadn’t seen coming, but it only took one look to see the sheer devastation in his eyes. Gawain knew that this was not planned, there was no way to feign that fear, the same fear that he felt too.

But the Ash man didn’t speak, only took a few deep breaths as he collected the weapons that had been left, and started riding. Gawain followed suit, assuming he knew the right path the same way he’d known there had been people on the road ahead of them.

Whatever path they were following, it had to lead back to Squirrel. There was no other alternative that he could accept. Surely the Ash man would agree, they’d fight the whole Red Paladin army if they had to. This would be one way to test his loyalties.

A sound beside him drew him out of his thoughts of revenge against anyone that harmed the boy, turning just in time to see the man topple off his horse. Shit. He must have been hurt worse than Gawain had realised.

“Lancelot!”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's impossible to rescue Squirrel if they're not at their best. Or if they're being awkward around each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter does go into Lancelot's past and there's (understandably) violence involved, so please be aware of that!

The last thing Gawain wanted to be doing was stopping, but he couldn’t leave Lancelot passed out on the ground. Even if he knew which way to go, it wouldn’t be right. He dismounted, looping the reins of his horse, and of Goliath, around a tree branch, ignoring the look of reproach from the Ash man’s horse.

“Lancelot.” He rolled the man onto his back as gently as he could, relieved that he was still breathing. As Gawain lifted the black fabric, he could see how wet the bandages were, but it didn’t look like there were new wounds, only those ugly ones from the night he’d saved Squirrel torn open again. He redressed them as best he could, aware the Ash man would not want the help, but they couldn’t waste time arguing over trifling matters.

Nor could he waste time just sitting there, waiting for the man to wake.

While he debated what to do, the decision was made by Goliath neighing in his ear. “The fuck –“ He glared at the horse, absolutely certain there was something wrong with that beast. There had to be. But since the bloody thing – Squirrel was rubbing off on his language – was lying down next to the unconscious man and looking at Gawain like he was a fool, there was no choice.

He argued with the horse.

“What do you want me to do, put him on your back?”

Fuck. The horse nodded.

“You might not have noticed –“ It was very uncomfortable, the fact that the horse actually rolled his eyes at Gawain. “Look at him. He can’t ride right now, he’ll fall right off again. You already dropped him once.” How had his life turned into this, insulting a horse that was now looking at him like he’d very much like to trample on his head? “Fine. If he cracks his head open falling from your back, that’s on you.” He moved the Ash man as carefully as he could, hovering close to Goliath’s side as the horse stood, and… the man didn’t fall.

If horses could speak, Gawain was sure that Goliath would be saying ‘I told you so’. The look he gave him was definitely saying that.

“He could still fall.” He pointed out, wishing he could stop arguing with this damn horse.

His heart leapt in his chest when Goliath broke into a canter, a wide circle around him, proving that the Fey man was staying in place despite being unable to hold himself up.

“Fine. Fine, you win.” Under his breath, Gawain muttered as he mounted his own horse. “Still don’t know which way we’re going now.” He’d follow the direction the tracker had started in, he decided. Apparently, Goliath didn’t agree.

“This way.” He called out, but Goliath kept going in a slightly different direction. “You bloody horse, this way.” He changed his own direction, catching up easily to snatch the reins up and try lead him in the right direction, only to be nearly torn off his own horse because Goliath refused to change directions.

Even worse, apparently his horse was more loyal to the other horse, which was not really a surprise considering Gawain had stolen him, but it was still really infuriating to try to turn his horse in the right direction without Goliath, only to end up following Goliath anyway.

And that nicker definitely sounded like a snarky laugh. The horse had more sarcasm than his owner.

Gawain absolutely was not sulking as they ended up riding in the direction chosen by horses, of all things. No, he was thinking of a plan for when they stopped, that was all. First he’d have to get Lancelot help, the man had stirred a couple times, and even whimpered once, a sound that had felt like he was back in the Kitchens facing the cruelty of the blind monk.

Then once the Ash man was safe, he’d track down whoever took Squirrel, no matter how long it took.

Then he’d return for the injured man, take them both back to the Fey camp.

There, he had a plan.

He just had no idea of the details of that plan, not when he wasn’t even sure where he was going.

Goliath obviously did.

Gawain did not approve of arriving in a man-blood village with an unconscious Fey man with a Paladin sword, but he was resigned by now, shooting a look at the horse that led them here, but for once, Goliath was behaving like a horse should behave, albeit stopping right outside an inn.

How did the damned thing recognise the sign for an inn?

This did work rather well with his plan, although it was much later than he wanted. He’d stay the night, he decided, pay for the Ash man to stay for another couple nights, maybe see if he could pay a healer to check over him discreetly, and once Gawain had Squirrel safe, he’d return for him. It was better than the man deserved.

Purchasing the room was fairly easy, Gawain well aware how to be charming even if he didn’t trust any man-blood and wore clothes that had been in fights. But he’d claimed he and his brother had been set upon, that their younger brother had gone missing, and all in all, it wasn’t exactly a lie.

The woman had believed it all, cooing softly over his concern for his family, and offered to have the horses stabled for them. It took up almost all the coins he’d stolen from the king’s camp, but it had to be worth it.

Until he realised he had to carry the unconscious Fey up two flights of stairs. He didn’t dare to ask for help, not when the markings were so obvious the second someone got a good look at them, and he wasn’t sure whether he actually trusted anyone here, no matter how kind and helpful the lady had been.

He might have been a little less graceful about it than he could have been, not minding too much if the Monk’s feet banged on each step as he dragged him up, but eventually, he didn’t have to worry so much about prying eyes as he dumped the man on the bed.

Turning away, Gawain was not thinking about how vulnerable the other Fey looked in his sleep.

\---

The boy was running. His legs felt like they were burning, but he knew if he stopped, he’d burn with the people he could hear screaming behind him.

_ ‘Cours, mon petit héros. Cours.’ _ Maman had told him when the screaming first started. And he’d obeyed.

But his legs were only little, and the smoke made real tears follow the tracks of his birthmarks, and he couldn’t last forever.

Curling under a tree, he was hiccupping with the tears, face pressing uncomfortably against the bark so his skin would camouflage. Papa had always said to do that if trouble came. Hide and stay hidden until he came for him.

It wasn’t the first time people had tried to attack them, it wasn’t the first time he’d hidden like this.

When he’d asked Maman why people were so mean to them, she’d sighed and wrapped her arms around him. Her words hadn’t soothed his soft heart.

_ ‘Les gens auront toujours peur de ceux qui sont différents.’ _

This time felt different. He’d seen someone grab Maman by the hair this time, he wasn’t sure who. All the men looked the same, cloaked in that red that was just as bright as the colour that spilled on the ground, the colour coming from the people he’d known his whole life. They were hurt worse than when he fell and scraped his knee on rocks.

The scab was still healing on his knee, but he wasn’t sure a kiss would make everyone else feel better like it had him.

He hadn’t even smelled the men coming closer, following the broken twigs he’d left in his path. Not until there was an arm wrenching him up, so hard that his whole arm popped, and he screamed.

It hurt so much worse than falling on the rocks.

The pain didn’t go away, not as the men dragged him across the ground, not caring about his cries. Tossed by the fires he’d tried to flee, he cringed as one kicked him in the stomach, but they left him alone. Not that he could run again, there were men watching, ready with sharp things. Papa had something like one of those and he’d told Lancelot to never touch it. One person tried to run, and Lancelot watched as their body fell and the head rolled closer to him.

Thinking of his Papa, wishing he’d come found him like he promised, Lancelot realised he could smell him. The game hide and seek had never been popular in their village, not when they all found it so easy.

But it was useful now, crawling across the ground awkwardly, as one arm still hurt to move. He could find his papa, and everything would be alright.

It wasn’t alright.

Papa’s head wasn’t with the rest of him, just like that other man he’d seen.

Bawling, more tears followed the tracks on his cheeks, screaming ‘Papa’. He knew that this was not right, that this meant Papa was gone and never coming back. He just didn’t know why.

One of the guards hit him with the back of his sharp thing, and it hurt so much, Lancelot’s screams turned to whimpers, hiding his face against his Papa’s chest. They only turned to screams again when someone pulled him off the ground. He tried to squirm away, but he couldn’t, the grip was too tight, it hurt. But no further hit came.

The words the man spoke were strange to him, but Lancelot clung to him anyway. It was better than being kicked again.

One day, he’d learn what the words meant.

“You might be useful, boy.” His lessons had been learned by fist or by starvation, but he could now understand nearly every word spoken to him. He just didn’t understand why he was here, so he’d asked. Father Carden had taken him in, protected him from the flames. Why? “You knew that body was your demonic father, didn’t you?”

Lancelot’s face twisted, but he knew he wasn’t allowed to cry, so he nodded.

“That is what I thought. Can you find others like you?”

Lancelot had to think about it, not wanting to lie. Lying always meant a week in the darkness.

“Yes.” It was true, even if admitting it felt like he’d done something wrong. He couldn’t tell, not from Father Carden’s face. “I can always tell.” His whole people could, didn’t Father know that? Each person had their own scent, but each clan had something about them. Maman had taught him that, teaching him what each scent meant.

“Good. You will help us.”

“Then I can go home?”

Lancelot should have expected punishment for the question, but he didn’t expect the crack of a whip over his back.

He crumpled, but Father only told him to get to his knees again. When he did, the second hit came.

“Where is your home?”

Lancelot knew there was a right answer but the only answer he knew got him into trouble again, another lash following it. And again when he said he didn’t know.

The answer was given to him when he was taken to see Brother Salt.

He belonged in Hell.

Lancelot didn’t know where hell was, but it didn’t sound like a nice place.

Not the kind of place little boys belonged. 

\---

When he woke, it was with a soft groan, despite the nightmares that had plagued him. He knew he was not allowed to cry or complain, he was to bear his sins without sound.

“Took you long enough.”

The dry voice made Lancelot wake faster, noting several things when he opened his eyes.

  1. They were inside, and Lancelot was lying in a bed while the Green Knight sat on the bed beside him.
  2. The Green Knight was not wearing a shirt, his skin still damp – it looked like he’d been cleaning.
  3. The Green Knight didn’t have any marks anywhere that he could see, despite Lancelot knowing full well that he’d injured the man and he’d suffered brutal punishment at Brother Salt’s hand.
  4. Percival was not there.



All of those were of concern to him, for a variety of reasons, but since his own safety was the least important one of them, he focused on number four.

“The boy. Where is he?” He sat up, ignoring the pressure of a hand trying to push him back. “Where is Percival?”

He fixed his gaze on the Knight’s face when it became clear that the Fey boy wasn’t just hiding somewhere. For the first time, he realised just how green those eyes were. His name was a fitting one.

“You passed out.”

Shaking his head, Lancelot still felt a little dizzy. “You should have left me, gone after him.” It was probably what he would have done if the situation was reversed, although he would have hated to leave the Knight in danger.

“Trust me, I thought about it.” The Knight’s lips curved and Lancelot shifted back slightly, trying to put some space between them. It only amused the Knight more. “Unfortunately, I think I require your skills, Ash man. I wasn’t sure which way they’d gone.”

The explanation made sense, but Lancelot still had a lot of questions that he didn’t dare ask. Some of them must have been in his eyes though, the Knight finally standing. He could breathe normally again without the closeness filling his senses. The Knight smelled like oak and thunderstorms and… something else. He didn’t remember that something else from when they’d first fought.

“Goliath brought you here. Figured we’d have more luck finding Squirrel if we were both well rested, and this was the only room left in the inn. We’ll leave once I know you’re not going to pass out on me again.”

Lancelot’s jaw clicked audibly, ashamed of himself as he swung his legs off the bed to stand, only to be pushed back by the Knight.

“Don’t be a fool. You’re no use to anyone like that. And don’t give me that look. You’re lucky you’re not dead, falling off your damned horse.”

“He is not damned.”  _ I am _ . “We have to find Percival.” Before whoever took him hurt him, just like Lancelot had been. Before the boy forgot the sound of his name, before everything good in him was broken and warped and – a gentle hand on his face dragged him from his thoughts, flinching when he realised how close the Knight still was.

“We’ll find him, brother. Squirrel is spirited, he’ll survive tonight, I have no doubts. And tomorrow, we’ll find him and kill those who took him from us.” Lancelot didn’t dare move, not while the Knight’s hand still lingered on his face. “We will save him.”

The brush of the Fey’s thumb over his skin made Lancelot jerk back, ashamed of the feelings that the kind touches were stirring. The fact he had a bare chest in front of him wasn’t helping.

“We will save him.” He echoed softly, hoping that he was only imagining the warmth in his cheeks and his chest. Or if he wasn’t, that the Knight couldn’t tell. This sin would surely disgust him, the truce they seem to have found would be shattered by the revelation of Lancelot’s full shame. The Knight was trying to help, and he was warping that.

“That’s right.” Thankfully, the Knight moved away, completely this time, and Lancelot tried not to watch too closely. “Could you tell how many took him?”

It was a topic that wasn’t easy exactly since it meant Percival wasn’t safe, but a lot easier than everything in front of him. “No. More than one. But I was only thinking of following the scent.”

The Knight hummed lightly. “So that’s how you do it? You scent them?” Lancelot nodded. “Very handy. I hope the smell isn’t too faded by the morning – no, don’t argue, we’re not leaving until the morning. Don’t make me tie you to that bed.”

Cursing his face for betraying him, Lancelot didn’t respond and prayed that the Knight wouldn’t turn around until his face was not pink. There was something about the idea of the Knight leaning over him, pinning him down – and of course God would not listen to him, especially not when he was thinking such sinful things.

The Knight took a step closer to him once again, stopping when Lancelot shifted back.

“Is there something wrong, Lancelot?” Hearing his name from the Knight, even if it wasn’t the first time, still sent a shiver through his spine, but he shook his head quickly.

Since it was too clearly a lie, he knew he had to say something to hide the true reason for his reactions. “I would prefer to leave now.”

The Knight hummed in agreement but didn’t seem to be in a hurry to redress. Perhaps he was sent to lure Lancelot into temptation.

“So would I. But I would also not like to see you hit the ground again. How are you feeling?”

“Fine.” The stare was almost enough to make him fidget, but he didn’t give him the satisfaction of moving an inch. “I have had worse. They would not have been a problem if I hadn’t been pulled off Goliath in the fight.”

“I thought so. Well, get some more sleep. You’ll need it tomorrow.” The Knight moved, setting some bread on the table beside Lancelot. “If you get hungry. I’ve already eaten, and it’s already going stale so I won’t want it in the morning.”

It would be good to eat, he hadn’t had anything in two days, so after a long hesitation, Lancelot took the bread. Well aware it’d make him sick if he ate too fast, something he’d learned the hard way, he tore off small pieces and popped them in his mouth. The Knight looked too smug at that, but fortunately, he turned away so Lancelot didn’t have to watch his face.

Less fortunately, the man decided to finish cleaning, moving towards a basin of water.

God save him, the Knight was definitely sent to torment Lancelot.

The former monk turned away sharply, the movement making him hiss slightly, but he tried to pretend he couldn’t tell that the Knight glanced over at him, jaw set stubbornly as he kept eating. A low chuckle was the only sound, sending a shiver rippling across his skin.

It only got worse.

When Lancelot finished eating, the Knight was circling around the bed, and he was so grateful that he’d already swallowed the last bite when the man laid next to him. His whole body went stiff, eyes carefully blank as he stared at nothing. But no touch came.

“Wash up if you wish.” The Knight mumbled, pulling the blanket over himself. “Just get some sleep. Consider that an order, Ash man.”

With the given excuse to get up, Lancelot slid out of the bed gingerly and sought out the same basin the Knight had used. He didn’t dare undress, not entirely, but it still felt good to clean off the worst of the grime on his face and neck, and even changed the bandages.

But once he was done, he felt a little lost.

“Just lie down.” The complaint made him jump, but when he glanced at the Knight, the man wasn’t looking at him.

The idea of sharing a bed with the man felt wrong on every level, but there was nowhere else, and he did want to be at full strength the next day. They had to save Percival, that was more important than his comfort.

Watching the Knight carefully, ready to back away the second he saw movement, Lancelot laid back on the bed, on top of the blanket despite how cold he always felt. When the other man still didn’t move, Lancelot finally turned his back to him.

How long he just laid there, waiting for something to happen, Lancelot wasn’t sure. But eventually, he understood. His sins were his alone, the Knight was not broken like him. Lancelot wasn’t sure whether he felt better or worse, realising that.

This time, when he slept, it was of another nightmare, another memory. But he knew it was his own fault. He was weak, he was broken. He was damned.

\---

Gawain didn’t find it easy to sleep next to the man who had been his enemy but was already something else. It would have been easier if the Ash man had argued more, he would have enjoyed that, seeing whether he could push him into acting on that little blush of his.

But the way he’d looked so aghast at the entire situation, Gawain knew better than try something with someone like that.

And damn it all, he didn’t even want to be thinking about the Weeping Monk like that. He didn’t want to know how blue his eyes were, emphasised by the markings around his eyes. He didn’t want to know that his cheeks turned dark when faced with a threat that hadn’t been intended as a flirt – but could easily have been one. He didn’t want to know anything about the man lying next to him.

But they did share one thing in common at least, and that was a sense of duty towards the young Fey.

He would have to stop taking his frustration out on him, truly give him a chance. It was harder with every interaction to believe this was a trap. No one could fake it that well, not for that long, and not in the condition the Monk was in.

Damn it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation:  
> I do not speak French, but a lovely friend helped me out.  
> ‘Cours, mon petit héros. Cours.’ – ‘Run, my little hero. Run.’  
> ‘Les gens auront toujours peur de ceux qui sont différents.’ – “People always fear those who are different.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are starting to look up as Gawain and Lancelot work together to save not just Squirrel but others.

They’d talked as little as possible once they woke, beyond the Knight asking him whether he felt up to riding or if he wanted to stay behind. Lancelot had only answered that with a glare, to which the fey knight had nodded like he expected it.

Lancelot wasn’t sure he liked how easily the other man seemed to read him, but there was nothing to be done about it.

Thankfully, there wasn’t much that needed to be said once they were riding. Lancelot trusted Goliath to lead them back to where Lancelot himself could get the scent and follow Percival and his captors.

But apparently the Knight didn’t have the same faith in his horse.

“Are you certain this is the right way?”

The answering huff from his horse summed up Lancelot’s feelings, but he answered the other man as drily as he could. “Yes.” Did he have any idea where they were going? No. But that wasn’t important. He trusted Goliath.

“How –“

Lancelot turned to glare at him before he could complain again, even holding a hand up. “I got something.”

That was enough to silence the Knight, and a part of Lancelot felt a little smug that there was something he could do that the other couldn’t. He was still useful.

“I recognise the smell. It isn’t Percival, but it is Fey. Perhaps they will know what has happened to the boy.”

It was nerve-wracking to watch the Knight think, wondering what his fate would be once they’d found Percival and these other Fey. The Knight let him live because of the boy, not because he was one of them. He understood that. He didn’t deserve to be one of them after what he’d done.

“Let’s go.”

The answer gave Lancelot absolutely no insight into the man’s thoughts, and he had to bite back a sigh. He liked to think he was insightful, being able to smell strong emotions, but he got nothing from the Knight. It made him wonder what he was doing staying with him, instead of just seeking Percival out himself.

He knew why. It doubled their chances of success. And if they found more Fey, if they could fight, the Knight would convince them to save Percival, and there would be more chances that Percival would be safe. That was the only priority right now.

The dream, or the memory to be more precise, was still weighing heavily on his mind.

Percival was stronger than he’d been, and older. He wouldn’t be broken in the short time that he was taken, because Lancelot wouldn’t let him be there for long. He’d sacrifice himself to be sure of that.

“Don’t worry, brother.”

Lancelot’s eyes darted towards the Green Knight and back to the path he was following, not any path that could be seen but one he was sure of. “I am not worried. I will get him back.” There was no alternative he could accept.

“We. We will get him back.” This time, when Lancelot glanced over, he could see the pain in the Knight’s eyes. It was a reminder that the other man had more claim to worry than he did.

“Yes.” He agreed softly. “We will.”

\---

It was a strange kind of torture, trusting a man he’d once wanted to kill. But Gawain hadn’t questioned whether the Ash man was lying about the scent he’d caught. Maybe he’d questioned the horse, but not the man riding that hell beast.

Somewhere in the night, he’d decided to hope for now that the Monk was telling the truth. He wanted to put the past behind them, and well… Gawain knew strategically, this was the riskiest mission he’d ever done, but if it worked, then the Fey would have the strongest warrior on their side. It didn’t mean he’d forgiven him for what he’d done, Gawain repeated to himself like a mantra. It was pure strategy. There was a reason he was amongst the most well-known Fey knights and it was because he’d plagued the Red Paladins more than any other. There was a large part of Gawain which delighted in taking something away from the Church and turning it into a weapon for them.

The problem was, he wasn’t sure if his concerns about that plan was the fact they couldn’t be sure the Monk had truly turned his back on the Church, that this wasn’t a trap; too much of him wondered if it was fair to treat Lancelot like a weapon, when it looked as though the man had been treated like that already.

“Can you tell me more about what you’re scenting?” As much as he wanted to hear that they were on the right track, the fact they were heading towards more Fey was a relief of its own.

“Different kinds. Perhaps four or five. They’re afraid, it makes it harder to distinct the smells from each other.”

Gawain blinked at that, realising that the Ash man could smell emotions as well. That could be dangerous. Or useful. He had to start thinking of him as useful.

“Anything else?”

“Man-blood.” The word sounded hesitant, Gawain looking over to see the Ash man looking the most insecure he’d seen him. Like he had said something wrong.

“How many?” Perhaps if he acted as though it was ordinary, the other would follow suit.

“Can’t tell. More than one, but they’re not afraid, it’s not as strong.”

It painted a vivid picture for Gawain. His jaw clicked shut, imagining his people being threatened and dragged from their homes. It happened too often. “Perhaps they were taken by the same people as Squirrel.” He decided to hope that was the case, it’d mean they were truly on mission. Not that he’d leave any Fey in the hands of man-bloods. They weren’t to be trusted. Fine, Arthur might have helped sometimes, but he’d also been a hindrance, so Gawain wasn’t about to change his opinion any time soon.

They fell back into silence again, but this time, Gawain wasn’t as uncomfortable. He was preparing himself for the fight that was sure to come, and taking into account the Ash man’s abilities. He’d never seen anyone move the way that he did, it would surely come in handy.

After half a day’s ride, the other man stopped, and his horse immediately did too. Damn thing had more loyalty to Goliath, Gawain thought wryly, still frustrated over that. “What is it? Are we close?” Keeping his voice low, he leaned towards the Ash man.

“There are more scents now, some older. I think there is a camp nearby.”

Almost in sync with each other, both men dismounted, Gawain scowling in frustration as he tied his horse to a branch while Goliath was left free to wander around. The horse was smirking at him, he was sure of it, but when he turned away to see the puzzled expression on the Ash man’s face, he shrugged. “He knows what my problem is.” The horse nickered lowly, as if agreeing.

Needing a plan, he drew closer to his newest ally, and ignored the way he stiffened up. “We need a plan.”

In hushed whispers, they came up with one, Gawain giving the other a chance to actually suggest ideas without immediately talking over him. When they’d come to an agreement, his hand stretched out to wrap around the Ash man’s wrist. “Be safe, brother. You’re no use to Squirrel if you get killed.”

His brow drawn seriously, he noted the way the Ash man swallowed thickly, his eyes tracing the motion of the bob of his Adam’s apple. But he didn’t let go until the other nodded.

“You need to stay safe too.”

\---

The rescue went off without a hitch. Gawain was pleasantly surprised by that, he’d expected some kind of disaster, but they’d killed the man-bloods who were rounding up Fey and placing them in cages – not Red Paladins, but he still bore no regrets over destroying any enemies to his kind.

Especially not when he’d discovered he fought well with the Ash man. They’d had each other’s backs, and there had been one moment as the battle ended where they’d caught eyes and he’d almost sworn the other Fey had started to smile a little at him.

The smile hadn’t lasted.

Not when the shout of ‘monster’ had run through the air as Gawain freed people from cages, and one daring Tusk man had swung a fist at the Ash man.

He knew Lancelot could have swung out of the way easily, he’d seen him dodge less obvious attacks than that. Yet the fist still crashed into his face, and Gawain knew the ash tears would be difficult to be seen over the black eye he was sure to have tomorrow.

“You know who I am?” Gawain kept his voice calm, but loud enough that everyone could hear him.

“The Green Knight.”

Gawain nodded to confirm that. “Yes. And yes, that man was once the Weeping Monk. Our enemy. But now he fights with us. I could not have rescued you if it were not for him. Anyone who wishes to exact revenge on him will have to face me first, understand?” The ripple that went through the small crowd wasn’t satisfactory. “He is one of us and I do not ask you to like him, but I do expect you to follow my orders. He is not to be harmed.”

“Yeah, and anyone who hits him, I’m going to stab them in the eyes.” The angry shout had Gawain’s heart lifting, turning to see the boy shoving his way through the group. “Lancelot’s my friend, you bastards.” Squirrel turned to Gawain with a blinding smile, as if he had no idea that the Green Knight was about to fall to his knees in relief at seeing one grubby face. “I’ll help you protect him, sir. That can be my first mission as a knight. I’ll keep him safe.”

Gawain tore his eyes away from Squirrel’s face, unable to resist reaching out to grab the boy’s shoulder and squeeze it, even as his eyes sought out Lancelot’s face. The same relief was mirrored there, along with other conflicted emotions.

Knighting Squirrel had definitely been a mistake, but it did allow him to tease the Ash man. “Very well. That’s your mission, Squirrel. You’re to stay by his side and keep him safe.” He knew it would really be the other way around, but hopefully the fact he trusted his former enemy with the Fey boy would keep anyone from starting a fight.

“Green Knight, sir?” Gawain looked back down at the hesitant question, worried for a second. “Do you have a sword so I can stab someone if they try hurt Lancelot? Or even just a knife?” Oh, that was definitely not happening.

He just shoved Squirrel in the direction of the former Monk, trusting that they’d be fine during their reunion now that he’d set the rules. He had to work quickly, not wanting to stay here, not with several Fey depending on him for safety. He’d have to get them to the Fey camp.

If he kept one eye and ear on that reunion while he spoke to the Fey and formed a plan, it was just curiosity.

\---

Lancelot had expected much worse than an insult and a punch, but the Green Knight had spoken in his defence. He would live another day.

Right now, the mixed-up feelings over that were overshadowed by relief. Of course Percival had revealed himself by threatening people. He was really going to have to talk to him one of these days, explain that antagonising everyone was not the smartest idea. Staying quiet could ensure survival.

Kneeling in front of Percival, Lancelot didn’t dare touch him. There were ghosts in his past that haunting him, and he was trying to remember that Percival was so much stronger than him, but he was still afraid.

“Are you hurt? Did anyone touch you?” He did his best to keep his voice low, but he could still swear that the Green Knight heard him.

“No, I’m not bloody hurt.” Percival didn’t have the same volume control, shouting out the words as he shoved at Lancelot’s shoulder. “You’re the one with another mark to go with those tears, you ugly idiot.”

Lancelot didn’t appreciate how often Percival reminded him he was ugly, but this time he was glad. That reaction sounded so much like the boy, he could finally breathe properly.

Until two arms wrapped around his neck. He was being hugged and his arms hung limply by his side, completely useless.

“I knew you’d save me.” Percival’s whisper only made Lancelot’s heart ache more. He didn’t deserve this but he couldn’t bring himself to pull away from the only person who would dare to hug the Weeping Monk. He’d just have to live with the fact that people would see real tears follow those that marked him as Fey.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They finally arrive at the camp, but that just brings up more complications.

Exhausted was an understatement for how Gawain felt. It was like it had set deep into his bones. There wasn’t a single scar to show for anything he’d been through, but he still felt all the aches and pains. Try as he might, he couldn’t entirely push it out of his head as they shepherded the Fey they’d rescued to where the Fey were last reported to be.

One of the captured people had filled Gawain in on some of what happened. The raiders helping them on the beach, things like that. But he knew how quickly everything could change, and current survival didn’t mean it’d last. There were too many questions he didn’t have answers for.

Like his newfound ability. Late at night, he’d discreetly tested it with a blade to his hand and watched as it healed immediately.

Like the Ash man who had stared at him from across the campfire as the blood disappeared, who was now walking beside Goliath. The former Monk had given up his horse for two children they’d rescued. When they’d started the journey, the children had feared the man, but Gawain had watched as Percival – who never left Lancelot’s side – told stories and poked fun at the older man until the children relaxed.

It was kind of sweet, actually, to see the fearsome warrior try not to smile as the three children laughed, usually at his expense.

It wasn’t a sight he’d ever expected to see.

The adults hadn’t reached so positively, but they obeyed the Green Knight, and left him alone as much as possible.

He knew it was only going to get worse when they arrived back at their camp. He’d initially planned for the Monk to be his prisoner, not one treated in the same manner that Gawain had been treated of course, but under constant guard nonetheless. He would never have been trusted to carry weapons.

But Gawain didn’t watch him now because he was armed and dangerous. He watched him to try figure out what he was going to do.

It was impossible to say that the Ash Fey was a prisoner when he was – well, shoving Percival lightly, to the sound of children’s laughter. He wished he was closer so he could hear whatever was being said, but he hung back.

Gawain had made the choice to trust him, and thus far, it seemed to be working out well. But the muttering of grown Fey was proof that it wasn’t so simple for everyone.

He didn’t expect people to forgive the Weeping Monk. Most of the time, Gawain hadn’t either. It wasn’t so simple as that. But he could see that the Fey was trying, he was obedient and polite around others, he was willing to do whatever he had to help. He’d even hunted food for them on the journey, kept their path well away from further fights.

Gawain would repay him by keeping him safe from the anger of their people.

Even with all the exhaustion and the thoughts circling his mind, Gawain was relieved when the Ash man suddenly dropped back. He’d spent so much time watching him, he could see how tense the other man was to walk so close to those who would rather kill him, but the words he spoke were a balm to everyone who heard them.

“We’re getting close to a large number of Fey.” He dropped his voice lower for only Gawain to hear.   
“And man-bloods, but there’s no fear.”

Gawain couldn’t keep the joy out of his face, assuming that the man-bloods in question must be the raiders that helped him. “That’s fantastic news, brother.” He stepped forward, planning to clap Lancelot on the shoulder, only to stop when the Ash man held his hands out together. “What – “

“I am your prisoner.”

Those four words brought a sense of disgust to Gawain that he wouldn’t have felt a week ago. “Yes, perhaps you should surrender your weapons.” He decided after a long moment, placing his hand carefully on the Ash man’s shoulder. “But I will not tie you. Squirrel would not stand for it.” Showing that their former enemy had changed would have to start with Gawain. “Don’t argue.” He cut the other man’s words off before he could even get a sound out. “You will stay by my side, under my guard. And you’ll give me your weapons. All of them.”

“May Percival keep my bow?” Gawain thought for a second but nodded. The young Fey was already carrying it and getting it back would just spark an argument. In response, the former Monk drew his sword. Gawain could see the flicker of something in those piercing blue eyes as whispers rippled around them, but both ignored it as Gawain took the sword. And the five other weapons, three of which Gawain hadn’t known he had hidden on his body.

The raised eyebrow on his face as Lancelot handed over the last one brought out the faintest trace of a smirk to the Ash man’s face, and he had to laugh.

“Thank you, brother.”

\---

It was difficult to walk beside the Green Knight without any weapons. Lancelot knew by now that the man wouldn’t hurt him, but there were a lot of other people around who didn’t seem to have the same opinion. Not that Lancelot had any idea what the Knight was thinking at any given time. Every time Lancelot expected to get in trouble, he instead got looked at with either sympathy or amusement, and it always made him a little dizzy.

As they drew closer to the camp, he could see how excited everyone got. Percival was practically bouncing, and even the man beside him was different. But each step made him feel stiffer, tempted to turn his emotions off like he’d done for so long. Whatever came, he didn’t want to be seen as weak when he was punished for his crimes.

Lancelot had a little more warning than the others, turning to the Knight. “Fey scouts are nearby.”

The Green Knight’s smile was blinding, the man reaching out to grip Lancelot’s shoulder. Even though it was tight, he didn’t pull away. “Thank you. You brought us back.”

The gratitude was something he didn’t deserve, but before he could manage to say so through his dry mouth, there was chaos.

But not the kind of chaos he was used to.

There had been a shout, but not one of anger or fear, and the Knight had rushed forward to greet the dark-skinned Fey woman with affection.

After that, it all happened fast.

Shuffled along with the rest of their small group, Lancelot kept his head down out of respect, but he knew that trouble was coming, with the Green Knight whispering to the warrior woman he’d greeted, and Percival running circles around the pair, probably thinking he was helping by interrupting regularly.

But as they drew closer to the camp, the worse it got.

He could hear his heart pounding, almost convinced others must be able to hear it too, it was so loud.

But he couldn’t slip away, he knew how that would look. Like he’d just pretended to renounce the Church, like he was simply looking for the Fey camp to lead the Red Paladins there and slaughter them. There was a time that Lancelot would have used that strategy had it occurred to him.

Not anymore.

He knew the second the Knight told the warrior woman that the Weeping Monk was amongst this group, watching her turn to scan the group with sharp eyes. When those eyes met his, he nodded once, not breaking the gaze. He was the man she was looking for.

Disgust filled her eyes, but he still didn’t look away, not even as she marched forward, ignoring both Percival’s shouted protest and whatever the Green Knight said softly. He matched her gaze as she pressed the tip of her sword into his throat, hard enough to break the skin, not once flinching.

“Traitor.” She spat the word at him, clearly having been told what he was.

“Yes.” He agreed calmly, aware that causing a scene only made the punishment worse. Every time he’d begged for forgiveness, he’d only been reminded that weakness was also unforgivable. “I know I have no right to request anything, but please do not kill me in front of the children.”

The woman sneered, only temporarily interrupted when Percival pushed his way between them.

“Leave Lancelot alone! He’s different now, he’s my friend. Green Knight, sir, you promised.”

The Green Knight laid a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “So I did. Kaze, he is here under my guard. But if he starts any trouble, I would appreciate your assistance in subduing him.” Lancelot finally looked away, realising the Knight still didn’t trust him.

“Fine.” Kaze snapped the word brittlely, but still turned her weapon onto Lancelot again. “But he has to be tied up.”

Two mouths opened to protest, but it was Lancelot’s agreement that silenced them. “Of course.” He held his hands together, complying with the orders he was given.

“Take Percival.” He muttered to the Knight, aware that the boy was just going to protest to everything and make this all worse. “If you trust this woman, then so will I. And please look after Goliath.” The Knight hesitated, but nodded once, speaking rapidly in a language he didn’t entirely understand to the woman called Kaze before just picking up Percival and walking off.

That was one way to do it.

He had no protection now, turning back to Kaze to see her studying him intently. It was different to the way the Knight always looked at him, it was much more calculating.

“Alright, move.” She gestured for him to start walking, and he did, her sword pressed into his back the entire time. Even when a rock came from the crowd and struck his face, he didn’t react, even as Kaze yelled out in frustration.

“Good thing we’re already taking you to the healer’s tent.” She muttered, but lightly poked Lancelot in the back with her sword when he hesitated in confusion. “Apparently you were badly hurt rescuing Squirrel. Nothing you don’t deserve, but they insisted you get checked out.” The explanation made sense, even though he’d done his best to convince both the Knight and the boy that he was fine now. The wounds were healing.

Inside the healer’s tent, all conversation fell silent the moment they saw who walked in.

Lancelot knew none of them wanted to help him, he didn’t blame them. “It is not necessary. I do not need a healer.” His voice was low, but it was a redhead who marched up to him with defiance.

“Well, apparently that’s not true, or you wouldn’t be here, Monk.” He bowed his head, not that it hid the tiny woman from his view. “Sit down, show me your injuries, and if you try anything, I’m going to scream bloody murder and Kaze will kill you. Got it?”

She reminded him a little of Percival, very bossy and outspoken.

Guided to a bed, he sat on it, careful to only lift his shirt high enough for the redhead to see his wounds, hoping that the marks on his back would remain his secret. But the hiss from Kaze suggested that maybe he’d failed that. Turning his head, they stared at each other for a few seconds before the redhead got his attention by poking his stomach.

She was definitely like Percival.

Turning back to her, he glared at her, but she just glared back. “You’re not as scary as the last time I saw you. Burning my village down, killing the people I’ve known my whole life. Glare at me all you want, I don’t care. I’d let you die if you hadn’t brought Squirrel back. This is for him, Monk.”

“Lancelot.” He corrected her softly after a long moment, where she’d started to smear some concoction on his healing wounds.

Her eyes met his again, the glare softening a little. “Pym. But that doesn’t mean I forgive you. Not yet. If Gawain’s right about you, I’ll forgive you, but I need time.”

“Gawain?” He knew he should have addressed what she’d said, but he didn’t know how to.

“Yes, Gawain. Usually wears a stupid antler helmet, very pretty, likes to throw girls into the river when they’re being annoying – yes, I know you’re out there, Gawain!” Pym called out in a louder voice, Lancelot twisting once again to watch as the Green Knight walked in with a laugh.

“You deserved to be thrown into the river, Pym.”

Gawain. Lancelot finally had a name for the Green Knight.

He watched as the two greeted each other with a hug, Gawain lifting her off the ground, not that it seemed difficult. Pym was tiny. But watching them only seemed to hurt, Lancelot deciding the ground was a much more interesting thing to stare at.

“How is he?”

“Lancelot? He’s fine, he’ll have scars – “Lancelot stiffened as Kaze snorted, but she didn’t say anything. “But he’ll live. If no one kills him. You’re going to have to tell me everything.”

“As are you. Apparently you are friends with raiders?”

“Hmm, you’re no longer the only interesting one, are you? Jealous?”

“You’re still small enough to throw into the river.”

“I hate you. Welcome home. Now, you should get him out of here, he’s making everyone nervous. You know what you’re going to do?”

Since they were talking about his fate, Lancelot stopped letting the conversation flow over him, looking up at them.

“What do you think I left him alone for? Had to make arrangements.”

\---

It’d been difficult, dragging Squirrel away, promising he’d protect Lancelot if the boy would just stay out of the way for a little while, quickly find out what was going on, and explain that Lancelot wasn’t a threat anymore.

That last part hadn’t been easy, but he was respected enough that it’d been agreed the Weeping Monk would remain under his guard until they could decide what to do.

Although his heart ached at the things he’d been told, he knew he had to focus on that, so once he’d organised matters, he returned to the healer’s tent in time to hear Pym talking to Lancelot.

No matter how broken his heart was right now over the news of Nimue’s disappearance, the fact that the tiny redhead was safe lifted him enough that he could pretend to be fine, just for a little longer.

But he was escorting Lancelot through the camp now, and he had to focus on that. He could see the trickle of blood on the Ash man’s forehead, he could guess what happened even if the man refused to discuss it.

“There will be a trial period, to see whether or not you can be trusted.” He explained in low tones, not wanting a riot amongst the camp once they all heard what had been decided. “Until then, you need to stay inside the camp and under the supervision of myself, Kaze or one of our raider allies. You will not have access to weapons, not that I think you need any to protect yourself if that becomes necessary. You won’t be allowed to ride your hell beast, but he’s stabled safely, and I’ll take you to see him every day if you wish.”

The second he let Lancelot into the tent, the Ash man was tackled, Gawain laughing softly as he edged past Squirrel clinging to Lancelot.

“I see you already heard the plans, boy?”

The Fey child nodded enthusiastically. “We’re going to share this tent. All three of us. I’m sleeping in there, and you two are taking the back half of the tent, and – “

Gawain tuned Squirrel out as he studied Lancelot. Now that they were in here, shut off from the camp, he knew he should go out and do his job. He was the Green Knight, there were expectations. But he also knew that it was too much to leave Squirrel alone as the only person guarding their former enemy. If people came for revenge, he knew Lancelot wouldn’t let anyone hurt Percival, but there was still a risk. And he was exhausted. Getting back was supposed to make things better, but it didn’t feel like that right now.

“Squirrel, you’re in charge. I’m getting some rest. Don’t let him leave, but maybe you can go grab some food for us at some point, if you can ever stop talking.” Gawain patted the boy on the shoulder to try take any tired sting out of his words, and made his way to the back of the tent, letting down the fabric that would hide him from view before he fell back onto the bed.

He could swear he could still feel Lancelot’s eyes on him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gawain acknowledges a few feelings, at least to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was a quiet day at work today, so I decided to go ahead and write this chapter up too. It's mostly from Gawain's perspective, which isn't as easy for me to write, but it does involve Gawain getting a hug from Squirrel, which we all know is the best thing for anyone.

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep.

Gawain had convinced himself he’d lie down just for a short while, rest his exhausted body, come to terms with what he’d learned.

He was not so lucky.

_‘Why?’ Gawain turned to look at the little girl, only seven years old. He knew she was supposed to be older, too old for pretty flower crowns. She’d declared herself a queen, hadn’t she? Perhaps not what he’d meant, but he would have gotten her a real crown if she truly could bring peace to their people._

_She was his sister, in all the ways that mattered. He would have gotten her a real crown if she’d just pouted at him._

_‘Why?’ She repeated, stepping closer._

_Those flowers weren’t just red, he realised with a sinking feeling. They were dripping with blood. Why was there blood?_

_‘Why did they save you? Why didn’t the Hidden save me?’_

_He tried to say her name, but the word wouldn’t reach his lips. The more he tried, the tighter the vines wrapped themselves around him, pulling him into the ground as she stared at him._

_‘You don’t deserve this gift, Gawain. You’re weak. You didn’t save me. Who have you saved?’_

“Gawain!”

The second something landed on him, Gawain shoved it off harshly, reaching for a weapon before he realised who it was.

“Squirrel!” The boy was sprawled on the ground, looking shocked. “Squirrel, I’m so-“

“It is my fault, I should have told him that waking a sleeping warrior is a bad idea.” Gawain couldn’t bring himself to look at the man who spoke, standing in the doorway, certain Lancelot’s eyes would hold judgement. For all that he was a dangerous man, he’d never even raised his voice at Squirrel, let alone hit him. “Percival, go see your friends. I’m sure they will want to hear your stories.”

It wasn’t anyone’s fault but his, Gawain knew that.

And it only felt worse that Squirrel scrambled to his feet, nodding. “Alright. I’ll… I’ll go. I’ll be back for bed.”

“By sunset, you’ll be back.” Lancelot instructed. Gawain could still feel those eyes boring into him.

“But – “

“No buts. Sunset.”

The long-suffering groan from the Fey boy would normally make Gawain smile – when it was directed at someone else and not him – but right now, he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

“Fine.” He drew out the word, and Gawain was sure those footsteps would take him out of the tent, but instead, he felt a small hand patting his shoulder. “Sorry for waking you, sir. There’s food if you want it.”

Gawain didn’t respond, guilt filling his stomach, no matter how hungry he’d felt before. But when Squirrel nearly pulled away, he caught the boy’s arm. “I’m sorry.” The only response was a hug, awkward but tight, and over all too soon.

He still didn’t look at the Ash man even once Squirrel had run off, or when the man brought food to set beside him.

“I can feel your judging stare, Ash man.” He grumbled when it became obvious the other wasn’t going to leave him alone.

“I am not judging.” His voice was so soft, Gawain found himself instinctively looking up towards it. The disbelief must have been clear on his face, because the man kept talking. Gawain knew he hated talking. “You’ve smelled distressed since you came to the healer’s tent. I thought Percival might cheer you up, I told him to wake you so you’d eat. I apolo- “

“Damn you.” Even though there was no heat to his words, Gawain still felt like he might as well have slapped Lancelot, the way he stared at him. He wanted to explain himself, say he wasn’t actually upset with him, but that the ability he had was something that Gawain both envied and was frustrated by. Knowing how someone felt would be a useful burden. “Keep your nose to yourself.” That was the best he could do, but it seemed to ease the Ash man’s tension.

And he was so sick of that.

Why was he paying so much attention to how this man felt?

“Will you tell me what is wrong? I understand if it is not my business, but – “

Once again, Gawain cut him off. “Our Queen was killed. _My_ queen. **_My_** sister.” The shuddering breath that the former monk took was likely not meant as an insult, but Gawain stood up. “The woman you hunted. You failed, but a little man-blood girl filled her with arrows where you couldn’t.” It was unfair to blame him, Gawain knew that. He didn’t even mean to say them, but he had no other enemies to rail at, so the injustice fell on the Weeping Monk’s shoulders. “Would you have celebrated? Hmm? Toasted to your brothers in arms that you’d won? Children shooting children, do you see that as a win?” He hadn’t noticed stepped closer, not until his fingers curled into the cloak that still wrapped around the Monk’s shoulders. He hated it, hated everything that black fabric stood for.

“Take it off.” It was a sharp order, Gawain letting go of the coarse material. If he was going to have any chance of seeing the Fey man and not his enemy, he wanted it gone. But the Ash man didn’t move fast enough. He tore at it, pulling it away from the other man until he could throw it on the ground. “Going to burn it.” He decided out loud, and the flinch from Lancelot only made his stomach clench.

“Do you have a problem with that, Monk?” Again, Lancelot barely moved, but Gawain knew what it looked like when he was hurt by something. He wanted to silence himself, but it felt like he’d been hollowed out by that dream.

Why was he here when Nimue wasn’t?

Why did he live when others didn’t?

And why did he have to put up with the man who acted like a skittish cat half the time?

“Answer me.” This time it wasn’t anger that powered his voice, but confusion. Why did the Fey man still wear that cloak when it was obvious he’d left the past behind?

\---

He didn’t know how to answer him.

Lancelot had long stopped expecting to be punished by the Green Knight, but now, he was certain that whatever he said, he’d be in trouble. But he had to try. He had to trust the Green Knight was not like Father, like the Paladins. He would never belong here if he couldn’t trust anyone.

“I am sorry.” He settled on those three soft words, aware they wouldn’t help but still hoping the truth of them might ease Gawain’s temper.

Whether they did or not, he wasn’t too sure. The noise that the Knight made was impossible for him to interpret.

“You’re sorry.” Lancelot watched as the Knight decided to speak, thankfully not yelling anymore, but still not giving him any space. He didn’t want to move himself in case it was a mistake to. “Of course you’re sorry. I’m yelling at you, and you’re sorry. I shove Squirrel, and you’re sorry. I know the church likes a martyr, but you’re taking it too far. I’m the one who is sorry. I know you’re not the Weeping Monk anymore, I shouldn’t have said that to you.”

He hadn’t liked seeing Percival shoved down, but he knew it was different to the way he’d been treated as a boy. Lancelot wouldn’t risk Percival’s safety, he was certain that Gawain would never strike him intentionally. “I am sorry you are yelling at me. And I am sorry for your sister.” Did that make Gawain a prince, if his sister was the queen? Why wouldn’t Gawain be the king? Did that mean he’d be king now? The Knight sighed heavily, and Lancelot took the chance to gesture towards the food he’d set down. “You should eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You should still eat.”

Gawain snorted at that, and Lancelot almost smiled. That was more like the Green Knight he’d been getting to know.

“You’re a hypocrite. I saw you sharing your food with the children all week.”

Lancelot blushed, he hadn’t thought anyone noticed that. But then, the Green Knight was always watching him, in case he made a mistake. Perhaps he should have known he would see it.

“You do that a lot.” Lancelot frowned, trying to figure out what Gawain meant. “This.” The Knight helpfully explained by brushing a finger over Lancelot’s cheek, making the blush bloom worse.

\---

He knew this wasn’t helpful.

He just needed to take his mind off everything, and right now, the only option he had was Lancelot.

“Is there something you want to tell me, Lancelot?” He teased, his hand drifting to tease the top of his shirt. A voice in the back of his head told him that this was dumb on every level, but he ignored it. He deserved one brief moment of insanity after everything. “Don’t have anything to say?” His smirk grew, watching Lancelot lick his lips. “We don’t need to talk.”

It was so easy to tug Lancelot in by pulling on his shirt. They were so evenly matched in heights, he could kiss him without either of them having to lean down. Definitely a bad idea, but the response from the Ash Fey delighted him. He’d half expected to be shoved away or for it to feel like kissing a statue, not to have his hunger matched.

Not that he was complaining.

Lancelot was a better kisser than he’d thought – and he had to admit to himself, he had been thinking about it. No matter how much he hadn’t wanted to at first. But this man wasn’t the Monk, he’d just said it. This was Lancelot.

Hoping to continue the distraction, and the attraction, his free hand moved to Lancelot’s side, fingers teasing under the fabric, testing to see how the Ash man would respond. The second he felt the change in the other man, he pulled back, slightly gratified to see that dazed expression. “Get some rest, Lancelot. Been a long day.” He wouldn’t push, but Gawain had every intention of exploring what it was like to kiss Lancelot under other circumstances. But for now, he could be patient. He already felt steadier than when he’d woken up. “I’m going to eat.” He gestured for Lancelot to take the other cot in the tent before grabbing the food that had been meant for him and leaving the privacy of the back half of the tent, throwing a smug look over his shoulder. “Sweet dreams, Ash man.”

He’d caught Lancelot touching his lips, and wasn’t that just charming?

“Good night… Gawain.”

It wasn’t until much later he realised that was the first time he’d heard Lancelot use his name, and he was definitely interested in hearing it spoken from those lips again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still not convinced that this isn't a little ooc for Gawain, yelling at Lancelot when he suspects at least some of what he's been through, but hopefully people enjoy it anyway! Angry Gawain isn't going to be a regular occurrence, he doesn't like that part of himself.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gawain and Lancelot have some revelations

One week since he’d been back, and Gawain had already thrown himself into his work. It wasn’t the same, despite how much he tried to take on more duties, but he had to keep reminding himself that one of those duties was now watching the former Weeping Monk. Around some, he claimed he was watching the Ash man to make sure he didn’t turn on them. To Lancelot himself, he’d said he was just keeping the peace. To Squirrel, he’d told the truth. If he was there to watch out for the Ash man, he could make sure no one tried to get revenge on the past.

Even though the Red Spear had offered her raiders to guard the former enemy, Gawain didn’t know them and he certainly didn’t trust man-bloods. Whenever they were on duty, he’d stay close to the camp, just in case.

It wasn’t so bad when Kaze was the one watching him. Gawain trusted her to only do what was necessary.

But the man next to him didn’t seem to agree on anything regarding the Ash man.

“I can’t believe you let him stay with Pym today.” Gawain did his best to ignore the complaint, the third time he’d already heard it today, but he couldn’t stop himself from rolling his eyes. Not that it stopped Arthur. “If he hurts her, she won’t have any way to defend herself.”

“He won’t hurt her, Kaze is there, and Pym is not as fragile as she looks.” He ticked off each point on his fingers, finally flicking his gaze up to Arthur. While he appreciated the fact the man was still helping Fey, he’d never trust any man-bloods. It just was ingrained in him now to have a healthy suspicion of them.

“She isn’t a fighter. She’s barely a healer –” Arthur’s words were cut off when Gawain stepped closer, a threat in his eyes.

While Pym hadn’t been a healer before all this had happened, he wouldn’t listen to anyone, especially not a man-blood, disrespect someone from his clan. “Pym is doing an excellent job.” He cut off whatever words that Arthur was about to use to placate him. “You may have earned the respect of my people enough that we will listen to your advice. But do not mistake that for believing you can order anyone here about, especially me.” His voice was level, not needing to cause a scene. Dissent in the camp would not help anything, not with people already on edge.

“I know that. I just don’t know why you trust him. You seem to trust him more than you trust me.”

Gawain debated telling Arthur that he was right, Gawain did trust Lancelot more. But he decided to go with the diplomatic answer, for the sake of the camp. “He’s proven himself to me, on more than one occasion. If I do not give him a second chance, no one will. Isn’t it better that he is on our side?” He could see that Arthur wanted to argue that they weren’t sure the Weeping Monk truly was on their side. “I’m not arguing with you over this again. He’s here, that is final. It is your choice how you handle it but consider whether your behaviour is actually helping matters or not. Now, can we get back to work, please?”

Thankfully, Arthur seemed to agree with that, if nothing else. Maybe he’d get through his work fast enough to go check on Lancelot before he headed to the training ground.

\---

It had been a nerve-wracking week. While he was sure Gawain was honest enough about wanting to give him a chance to redeem himself, that didn’t mean that everyone in the camp felt the same way. He felt a lot of eyes on him every time he left the tent, not that he was surprised. He was only surprised that no one had found a way to attack him yet. Most of the time, the worst he got was hissed insults whenever he walked past people, never once showing how much the words stung.

But Lancelot knew that if he wanted people to accept his existence, he had to do more than just hide in the tent he shared with Gawain and Percival. It didn’t help that the Knight hadn’t done anything forward since that first night. Lancelot would have forgotten all about it if it wasn’t for the fact that Gawain smirked at him every night as he wished him ‘sweet dreams’.

Well, he wouldn’t have forgotten about it, even without that, but he could have tried to.

It did help that Pym didn’t seem to be too afraid of him, as did the fact that Kaze mostly ignored him whenever she’d set him up with a task so he was there in the camp, doing something useful, but not a threat to anyone.

God, he wanted to get his hands on a sword, just to train again.

For now, he was settled on the ground by the healer’s tent, washing herbs and handing them to Pym, who was telling him which each one was used for. While he might not look like he was paying attention to her words, he was taking it all in. Every so often, she’d ask questions and he’d always have the answer ready for her. It pleased him that she seemed satisfied every time. Lancelot didn’t want to get in trouble for anything, so if this was all he was allowed to do, he’d excel at it. He accepted nothing less for himself, because perfection had been the only way to survive.

“When these are combined, they can help smooth out skin. Usually the elders use it to try hide their wrinkles, but it can help with scars, dry skin, all sorts of things.” Lancelot glanced over the herbs she was working with, taking note of them as he always did when Kaze nudged him with her foot, her seat on a log near enough to him to reach out and kick him lightly.

Usually that meant she wanted him to pay attention to her, so he turned to face the woman he’d started to respect over the past week.

“You should use some of that on your back.”

The look he shot her was so full of offense, she actually snorted in amusement. Or it might have been because Pym was leaning over to pull at his shirt. It was a sign of progress he didn’t immediately shove her away, instead just tried to bat her hands off him.

“Lancelot, stop being ridiculous, just show me. You’ve shown Kaze, apparently. It’s my job, and –” The redhead was clearly preparing to talk him into submission.

“Just show her before she starts fussing.” There was another nudge of the foot, but Lancelot didn’t immediately obey like usual. “What is the problem? It is not like we don’t know you’ve been in a lot of fights.”

That wasn’t the problem, not exactly. While he was ashamed of what he’d done, Lancelot knew his scars weren’t a reminder of that. They were proof of his sins.

But everyone in the camp knew that neither Pym or Kaze were to be denied once they’d made their mind up, and they were both insisting that he show them. Lancelot had no idea how to say no. He supposed it was inevitable. They’d already made it clear they hated his tonsure, helping to braid his hair in a way that would cover the mark from sight until his hair grew out. Perhaps they’d just remind him to add more scars, that was something he could live with.

Afraid of the disgust that he knew would be in their eyes, he stared at the ground as he tugged his shirt off, letting them see the marks. Most were faded, crossing over each other in a mess of lines, but not all of them. Some were barely closed over, still raw and pink, while some had clearly happened within days.

He didn’t move an inch as he heard the soft gasp from Pym, or as Kaze moved to sit in front of him.

“Did someone do those new ones to you?” Her expression was impossible to read, when he finally looked up at her.

“No.” No one had dared to touch him here.

Kaze still didn’t say anything, but Pym’s noise of outrage dragged his attention to the redhead.

“Does that mean you did that to yourself?”

“I’d doubt all of them. The new ones, yes, but some of those look years old.” Kaze didn’t even give Lancelot a chance to talk, turning to Pym. “From when he was a boy, wouldn’t you agree?” Pym made another noise that really wasn’t flattering.

“Lancelot.” He refused to look at either of them.

“Oi.” Usually when Pym said oi, she followed it with an insult, usually an amusing one, but this time, she just laid her hand on Lancelot’s shoulder. “Please talk to us. How did you get these?”

He still didn’t look up, never too sure if he could trust kindness. “There have always been many things that I needed to be punished for. Once I was old enough, Father encouraged me to be honest about my sins and punish myself accordingly.”

There was a third noise, but this one came from the first sign of disgust from Kaze.

It hurt. He’d thought that perhaps they would give him a chance to make amends, just like Gawain and Percival had. Though, neither of them had seen his scars either. Perhaps he would have no one at all once the women shared the news of his shame. He’d be even more alone here. He already didn’t belong, he’d never belonged. He should have just left the moment that he knew Percival was safe. That would have been better for everyone.

With his heartbeat echoing in his ears as he tried to think of a way to beg them to let him stay, he almost didn’t notice Kaze speaking.

She obviously realised he hadn’t understood her words at first, repeating them slowly. “How old were you? When they took you?”

Sometimes, Lancelot couldn’t remember the years before he was taken. Since being at the camp, he’d started to remember more, snippets which only caused more pain than anything else. “Five.” He had spent so much of his life in the Church, it was really all he knew. Those five years, they were more a dream than anything, and talking about them had always left him punished.

Wicklow had asked if Lancelot saw something of himself in Percival, the night he’d rescued the boy.

He didn’t.

Percival was so full of energy and light, he was a reminder of what Lancelot could have been. He was a reminder that there was goodness in his people, despite all that he’d been told by Father.

Percival had possibilities, a life ahead of him. That was why Lancelot had rescued him.

“Will you let me put something on these, Lancelot?” Pym’s gentle question took him by surprise.

“Why? They’ll heal fine.”

“Until you reopen them.” Kaze shot back, the two women working together once again to get their way. Lancelot just wasn’t sure what they were aiming for.

Were they trying to get him to admit to the sins he’d committed while here? Talking about that would be impossible. Not only did he have zero intention admitting he was attracted to Gawain, that fact might put the Knight in danger. He couldn’t do that.

When he refused to answer, Pym opened her mouth, but whatever she was going to say was cut short.

“Give me something for them, Pym. I’ll take care of this.”

Lancelot didn’t think he could feel any worse.

\---

He was furious.

Gawain had figured that whatever Lancelot had been through had to be brutal, to convince the Ash man to turn on his people and turn him into the Church’s puppet. Actually seeing the evidence of how they had done that stretched over pale skin, he wanted to find every Red Paladin and kill them all.

Brutally, he decided.

But it wasn’t something he could do right now, not when Lancelot looked very much like he wanted to run, and right now, Gawain didn’t trust him to be left alone. It was the first time he’d actually thought that since arriving in the camp, but he was only concerned with what new scars might be added to the ones already there.

Taking a jar of something from Pym, he nodded when Lancelot quickly pulled his shirt back on. “Good idea, we’ll go back to the tent. You’ll be more comfortable there.” He knew that wasn’t what the Ash man intended, but he wasn’t taking no for an answer. To be absolutely certain that Lancelot wouldn’t run, he offered him a hand up, reaching down to grab Lancelot’s hand and pull him up when it was ignored, and held onto him as he started walking. Lancelot didn’t have much of a chance to pull away, and he’d apologise for that later, but right now, he needed to look after him. Gawain knew Lancelot well enough now to know that he’d never had someone look after him and wouldn’t ever know what to do about it. Well, he was just going to have to learn.

“Out.” He instructed Squirrel the second he was inside the tent, Lancelot standing behind him. “I’ll yell at you for skipping your chores later.”

Clearly relieved to escape, since he was supposed to be helping with the horses today, Squirrel quickly ran out of the tent.

“Please.” It was the first word Lancelot had spoken to him, Gawain quickly turning to him. “Don’t punish him.”

“You know I would never.” He promised, aware now what Lancelot was afraid of. “No one will ever hurt Squirrel like that. If they do, we’d exact the same punishment on them. Understand? What happened to you should never have happened. No one should ever hurt a child. If you ever hear of anyone in this camp doing this to a child, to anyone, I want you to tell me immediately.”

Lancelot nodded, his face returning to the blank stare that he always used when he was overwhelmed, Gawain noticed.

Gently, he nudged him back. Pushing Lancelot around while so vulnerable wasn’t something he wanted to do, but it seemed like the quickest way to get him the help he needed. “Take your shirt off, lie down.” The fear that flashed into Lancelot’s eyes made him sigh. “I am not going to hurt you. Please. I’m asking you to trust me.” As he expected, that had an affect on Lancelot. Gawain had been making a close study of him since meeting him, and he wasn’t above using that to get his way.

Once Lancelot had done as he instructed, Gawain sat on the bed beside him. The Ash man was rigid, just like he’d been when they’d shared a bed before. In a better circumstance, he would have teased him about it, seen if he could coax the blush out of him. Not right now.

He had a lot he wanted to say, but first, he had to get Lancelot to relax.

Warming his hands by rubbing them together, he studied each scar carefully. He was definitely killing Carden if he ever got the chance. Before, it would have been for all Fey, but now, it was much more personal. He’d do so for Lancelot. “Let me know if it hurts.” He used the ointment Pym had given him, spreading it across Lancelot’s back. He wanted to trace each scar, but there were so many that crossed over, this was the easiest way to reach them all.

Lancelot didn’t make a sound, not that Gawain expected otherwise.

Sitting in silence was not something he minded usually, but after a few minutes, as he massaged the ointment into a scar parallel to a fresher wound, he knew he couldn’t ignore this. “Will you tell me why you do this? You do not have to if you don’t want to.” Not upsetting Lancelot even more was the priority now. He didn’t want the Ash man to think that he had to punish himself for anything. “I just can’t imagine what you’ve done wrong since you’ve been here. Pym says you’ve been very helpful.” He kept his voice low and soothing, aware that he was hardly the best for this job, but he didn’t want it to be anyone else here.

“I don’t want to.” The fact that Lancelot was honest about that, no matter how small the words were, made Gawain smile, stroking Lancelot’s back.

“Then don’t. But perhaps the next time, you can come to me instead? I can find a more appropriate… method of dealing with it.” He didn’t think there was anything that would make him want to punish Lancelot now, and certainly not by hurting him, but if he had to give him chores to stop him from hurting himself, so be it.

All his work in relaxing Lancelot seemed to come undone, the man tensing under his hands again.

“Lancelot. You can’t keep doing this.” He traced a finger over one of the rawest marks, careful that he wouldn’t hurt him. But the Ash man didn’t respond.

Biting back his sigh, Gawain returning his attention to massaging the ointment into Lancelot’s back in silence. He knew the damage was more than just physical now, and it wouldn’t be so easily undone. But he didn’t like the idea of the man hurting if there was something he could do about it.

When he shifted positions, his hands moving lower down Lancelot’s back to reach the scars lower, Gawain heard a soft noise from the man. “Did I hurt you?” No answer. Gawain stilled his hands, fingers splayed over his back.

“It does not hurt.”

The voice was just as small as before, and even stiffer. Gawain started to pull his hands away, Lancelot turning his head enough that Gawain could see the pink spreading over his cheeks, emphasised by the marks of his people.

Oh.

Gawain had thought perhaps a little too much about getting his hands on Lancelot, having him lie on the bed for him, but not like this. He didn’t want to take advantage of the man when he was surely feeling vulnerable. Still, he could make it clear what he felt.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to tempt me by blushing like that.” He teased, his hands lowering to Lancelot’s back again. “It’s working, in case you were wondering.”

Clearly, he’d said the wrong thing.

Lancelot rolled over, Gawain’s hands ending up on his waist to try keep him from fleeing like he so clearly wanted to.

“I’m not tempting you.” It hurt to see how panicked the Ash man looked, Gawain rubbing his thumb gently over his side to try sooth him. “I wouldn’t. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“Why do I suspect you’re apologising for more than the blow to my ego?” Perhaps he’d read the signs wrong, he’d have to apologise for that, but first he had to get Lancelot to calm down.

“It is a sin.” The hushed words confused him, frowning down at Lancelot as he tried to puzzle out his meaning.

“Lancelot, if you try to escape again, I will pin you to this bed, and that is not how I wanted to do that. What is a sin? I need you to talk to me. I promise you, whatever it is, you will not be in trouble.”

He wasn’t surprised that Lancelot couldn’t look at him, instead staring at the roof of the tent. He didn’t take it personal. Gawain had noticed that the Ash man did stared that blankly any time he felt unsure of something.

“I… I want –” Lancelot’s breathing was getting worse, Gawain bringing a hand up to cup his cheek. It didn’t help, just made him close those beautiful blue eyes.

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting things, Lancelot. It’s natural to –”

“It’s not. We’re men. I shouldn’t.”

Gawain had to smile at the interruption, finally understanding. “It is natural. At least amongst the Fey, the idea of men being together, or women being together, it’s as natural as a man and a woman. Sometimes, more than two people are together. All that matters is that everyone involved is happy with the arrangement, that no one is hurt.”

When Lancelot finally opened his eyes, Gawain smiled more softly. “I’ve wanted men before.” Unable to resist a little bit of teasing, he slowly ran his gaze down Lancelot’s bare chest and back up to his eyes. “Do you think there’s something wrong with me for looking at you like that?”

It was satisfying to see the blush spread again, and even more so when Lancelot swallowed thickly and shook his head.

“Good. Because I intend to look at you like that again, if you’ll let me.”

\---

It was all overwhelming him. Lancelot had expected to be in trouble, not for Gawain to tell him that not only was it okay to want him, but to return that interest.

“Is that why you punished yourself?” Gawain confirmed, dragging him from his thoughts again, impure ones that were making it impossible for his cheeks to return to their normal colour. He nodded, still on edge but trying to trust Gawain completely. “Oh, Lancelot… You never need to hurt yourself for that. Ever. If you’re thinking thoughts about me, you should tell me. I’d like to know what you want me to do to you.”

His cheeks were going to be permanently red at this rate, his gaze dropping to Gawain’s lips for a second.

It brought out a soft chuckle from the Knight. “As you wish.”

Lancelot expected more than the light brush of lips that almost felt like a promise of something sweet, shifting to prop himself up on his elbow when Gawain pulled away.

He wanted to ask Gawain to kiss him properly, to touch him again, to show him that this was real. He just didn’t know how to find the words. Perhaps action would be easier.

Closing the distance – not that it was much – between them, he pressed his lips to Gawain’s, only to pull back immediately. “Are you sure it is okay?” He had accepted he was damned, but he didn’t want Gawain to be punished because of him. Not by someone finding out about this, or in the afterlife. Gawain was _good_ in all the ways Lancelot wished he could be.

“I promise.” Lancelot felt a little bit like he was melting when Gawain cupped his cheek gently again, brushing his thumb over one of Lancelot’s ash tears. “If this makes you feel good, then that is what matters. You won’t ever get in trouble for this because there is nothing wrong with it.”

He trusted Gawain. In the week here, the Green Knight had been so patient, teaching him that the Fey weren’t the monsters the Church had made him believe.

It still terrified him, but he turned his head slightly to practically nuzzle into the hand on his cheek.

“Will you promise me you won’t hurt yourself again without talking to me first?” Lancelot hadn’t expected that, but after a long hesitation, he nodded. If that was what it took to make Gawain drop the topic of his scars, then so be it. It wasn’t something he wanted to think about now, it only made him anxious again. “Good. Now…”

Pulled into another kiss, Lancelot wasn’t given much chance to overthink anything.

What started out as a sweet kiss quickly deepened into more, Gawain shifting to pin Lancelot down like he’d threatened. It was much nicer than he’d thought, a soft breathy moan escaping his mouth as Gawain nipped at his bottom lip.

“I want you.” The words sent a shiver through Lancelot, arching into Gawain to try say he wanted him too. “Hidden save me, I don’t mean right now.” He could feel the smile on Gawain’s lips from where they rested against his neck. “I want you to think about it first. Make sure you’re comfortable with the idea, and think about what you’d like. Can you do that?”

Before Lancelot could answer him, there was a loud clatter from the other half of the tent, Lancelot trying to push Gawain back despite the soft laughter from the Knight who refused to move an inch.

“Squirrel, we’re going to have that conversation about chores now!” Gawain called out before pressing another kiss to Lancelot’s lips and murmuring, “And we’ll finish this _conversation_ later.”

He tried not miss the wait of Gawain’s body on top of his, aware he’d not be able to get anything done for the rest of the day if he couldn’t get his mind off the Green Knight.

But maybe he could get a little revenge. “Gawain.” He kept his voice low so he wouldn’t be overheard by the boy who was already complaining that he thought chores were boring, watching as the Fey knight turned back to him with a smile. He was weak for that smile. “I know what I want.” He didn’t dare say anything else, but the soft groan from Gawain only made him smirk more.

Left on the bed, Lancelot was certain that the Green Knight was going to be the death of him after all, like he’d wondered during the years they’d been enemies. But it didn’t seem like a bad way to go.


End file.
